


As Stimulating as Black Coffee

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 17:52:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9618617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Good things come to those who communicate. That's never been their strong suit.For this month's trope challenge.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, for those who are not on Tumblr, there is a monthly challenge to tackle a particular trope. This month is Communication Chaos, and more details [can be found here](http://firesign23.tumblr.com/post/156667151132/february-mfmm-fic-challenge). Everyone is welcome to participate! 
> 
> Title comes from the quote "Good communication is as stimulating as black coffee, and just as hard." because it amused me.
> 
> On an entirely different note, this fic was... interesting. After I wrote a "bad first time" drabble (and [deedeeinfj wrote an amazing expansion--seriously, go read it. I'll wait.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8997346)) the idea wouldn't leave me alone. So I wrote a chunk of this, only to realise my brain would NOT write the smut. I joked that the only option was to con someone else into writing it for me, and the lovely Meldanya actually volunteered. I mean, I then maimed her hard work, but still. I think she's still disavowing all knowledge, but this never would have been finished without her, so... * _shrugs_ *

Phryne did not do nervous. She did not timid. And she most certainly did not do unsatisfactory.

Which was, perhaps, why this encounter with Jack was so damned frustrating. It had started off well--he’d arrived in England, meeting her at her hotel suite. There had been some frankly excellent snogging, and they’d made their way to the bedroom, where it had all gone to hell.

Maybe it was her fault. No flesh and blood man could live up to the fantasies that had followed her around for the past year and a half. It was why she didn’t usually indulge in them--see a bloke that struck her fancy, flirt, bed him, and move on. No entanglements, nothing riding on the outcome. 

And he was trying. There was nothing wrong with his technique that a bit of gentle redirection wouldn’t fix--even that was simply a matter of preferences--and she’d never shied away from that before. She found herself staying silent though, save an occasional pleased sigh to encourage him.

“Phryne?” he asked.

She’d never been terribly good at lying to him. But ‘Well, actually, although your finger grazing my throat is enough to nearly cause spontaneous combustion, your oral technique seems to leave much to be desired and actually this whole thing is not working for me in the slightest’ was more than she could bear to say--he’d come all this way, was so earnest and sincere…

She sat up, giving him a smile she didn’t quite feel.

“My turn,” she purred, pushing him back on the bed.

Starting at his neck--and god he _smelled_ amazing--she trailed kisses down, slow and sweet and warm; he didn’t respond, so she dragged her teeth gently over his nipple. He jumped, grunting, and she looked up and caught his grimace.

“No teeth?” she asked.

“It’s fine,” he said. “You just surprised me.”

“I’m aiming higher than _fine_ , Jack.”

The man actually _pouted_. “Well, I certainly wasn’t achieving it.”

“Jack--”

“I’m aware I have not had your… _variety_ of lovers, but I’m not a fool.”

She sat up and glared at him.

“Oh, so this is about my proclivities?”

“No, it’s not. Though I have to admit that I was at least hoping to eclipse _some_ of them. Rosie was always--”

Was he seriously using his _ex-wife_ in this argument?

“Well, I’m not Rosie and I’m never going to be Rosie.”

“I never said I want you to be,” he said, brow furrowed.

“You didn’t have to, did you?” she scoffed. “It’s so wonderfully clear--dear, honorable Jack and all of his devoted little women. Completely immune to women like me.”

“I wasn’t aware there _were_ women like you.”

“Don’t try and charm your way out of this, Jack.”

“What _this_?”

She gestured between them. “ _This_. Whatever ridiculous... This! Sailing to ruddy England--”

“Because you asked me to.”

“Exactly! Why would you do that?”

“Because--as I just said--you asked me to.”

“Right,” she said, standing from the bed and wrapping a robe around herself as she began to pace the room. “So you took months off work for an idle whim, without any expectations or promises, just because I said the word.”

“Weren’t you just mad at me for being immune to you?” he asked, confused.

“You are! Only now you’re not and obviously expecting me to…” she let out a growl of frustration. “I think maybe it’s best if you leave, Jack.”

She expected him to say something calming and rational, but he stood up instead.

“I think you may be right, Miss Fisher. This is clearly not working for either of us.”

He quickly pulled on his trousers and jumper, grabbing his bag from near the bedroom door and heading out. Phryne watched him go, the words asking him to stay--to figure this out together--on the tip of her tongue. He paused at the doorway, not looking back.

“I didn’t _expect_ anything from you Phryne,” he said, his tone quiet but caustic. “Heaven knows you wouldn’t give promises. I came because I thought that maybe, just maybe, we could… be something more. I don’t know why. You said it yourself: there’s a whole world out there. Be sure to enjoy it.”

The door was nearly silent behind him.

\------

It hadn’t been his best performance, but considering he hadn’t had sex in nearly five years Jack felt he could cut himself some slack. He had no idea how they had gone from bad sex to her rambling about expectations and kicking him out of the hotel room though. He could only presume that she had changed her mind and not known how to tell him, which was no more than he should have expected. She was not cruel, but chasing after a woman who couldn’t even explain that her unexpected house guest was her father was a foolish move. He’d tried to convince himself otherwise, but experience had proven him right.

His return ticket was several weeks away, but he had some old Army mates in England that he had hoped to visit and a hotel was cheap enough. So he took a room in a small hotel near the Tower of London and did his very best to forget Phryne Fisher entirely; he visited friends, he toured London’s many attractions, and it almost worked. 

At least for the first few days.

It was four in the morning when there was a knock at the door; flicking on the bedside lamp, Jack stumbled towards it and peered through the peephole. His breath caught, his hand turning the doorknob before he had a chance to think.

“Phryne?” 

She was clearly coming from some club or another, furs and silk and jewels wrapped around her. 

“Hello, Jack.”

“How did you…?”

“Find you? I am a detective.”

He stepped aside and motioned her in, shutting the door behind her.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, scrubbing his face with his hand.

“I found a murder today,” she said without preamble.

“My authority doesn’t stretch this far. Go find some poor sod at the Met to irritate.”

“I did,” she said. “The case is already solved. The detective even took me out for a very nice evening of drinking and dancing to celebrate.”

“And now you’re here?”

Phryne shrugged, looking around the small hotel room, then moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I wanted whiskey, not champagne,” she said.

“I’m sure your new friend could accommodate.”

She huffed, then gave him a small, bitter smile.

“I wanted you, Jack. I wanted you on the case, and I wanted you in England, and damnit there are nights I want you in my bed so badly I actually can’t sleep.”

“Phryne, we tried--”

“We didn’t. We let one awful night…” she waved a hand helplessly, her expression lost; it was both unsettling and heartbreaking. “I thought-- I thought it had to be…”

“Perfect?”

“I thought it had to be important. But it’s not.”

It might have been the hour, but Jack had to admit he wasn’t following.

“It’s not important?” 

She paused, mulling the statement over. 

“It’s… That’s not what I meant.”

“How much champagne did you have?” Jack asked.

She looked up, meeting his eyes properly for the first time, and smirked. “They were out of whiskey.”

“Be that as it may, Miss Fisher, perhaps you ought to return to your hotel?”

“Are you kicking me out?”

“No, I just think…”

“All we can seem to do is think,” she said, glancing down at her hands. “About what this is and what it’s supposed to be like and… we’ve thought it six feet under ground at this point.”

Jack ran his hand over his chin, chuckling at the macabre image. Phryne sighed once more, then gave herself a little shake and stood, smiling broadly.

“Luckily for us both, I am a skilled necromancer,” she said brightly. ”I’ll expect you at the hotel at two o’clock this afternoon.”

“I…”

“See you then!” she trilled, sweeping out of the room.

Jack just stared at the door, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into this time. It didn’t even occur to him not to go.

\------

Phryne had changed her outfit twice, and was getting progressively more annoyed by her own inability to settle. She wasn’t even certain he’d come--it had seemed so very clear after enough champagne cocktails, and while the theory was still quite sound, it was also up against all the nobility and resistance in Jack Robinson’s body. She was not accustomed to waging battles it was uncertain she’d win.

She was just eyeing a third outfit--a pretty little blue number that was barely more than a slip of silk--when there was a comfortingly familiar rap on the door. With no time to change, she smoothed the dress she wore and took a bracing breath. If this went poorly….

Well, it wouldn’t. 

“Jack!” she breathed as she swung the door open.

He smiled at her, a little chagrined, and moved his hat from hand to hand.

“Perhaps we ought to leave the spectres of ex-wives and former lovers at the door today?” Phryne suggested. “I think we have enough ballast between us without adding other people.”

Chuckling, he stepped into the suite and Phryne took his hat and coat to hang up before turning to look at him.

“Drink?” she asked, gesturing to the liquor cabinet.

“No champagne?” he teased.

“Saving it for later,” she said lightly, then sobered. As difficult as this would be, saying nothing would be worse. “Jack, the other night. That wasn’t… it wasn’t how I had hoped it would go.”

“I was--”

“There’s no reason to lay blame. There were things we both did wrong; it was easier to argue with you than acknowledge that... “ she took a deep breath, annoyed with herself immensely. “Perhaps it was easier to let it go wrong in the boudoir than wait for it to go wrong elsewhere.”

“And now?”

She shrugged. “I think it’s worth a second attempt.”

“Phryne…” 

“If you don’t want this, Jack--” 

“I do,” he rushed out, then smiled at the relief of saying so. “Very much.”

Phryne spun, toying with the neckline of her dress.

“This comes off with two cleverly placed buttons,” she purred, moving backwards towards the suite’s bedroom. “Can you find them?”

He followed her, the tiniest smirk lurking in his eyes as he shed his jacket and shoes; she kept ahead of him until she felt the edge of the bed touching the back of her legs, when he took the final two strides to capture her mouth with his, her head cradled in his palm, her body pulled flush against his by a hand at the small of her back.

It was a lovely bit of confidence that did not last as the dress fell away, revealing that she wore nothing beneath; he swallowed hard and stepped back, clearly remembering their previous encounter. 

“Jack,” she said softly, “I’m interested in the here and now, not the before.”

He nodded, clearly still torn between memories and the opportunity before him. Well, there was no having that. A little gentle direction, a suggestive nudge, perhaps a metaphorical wink, and it would all work itself out. 

He must have read her thoughts on her face, because he smiled and stepped forward once more, his fingers skating down her hip; she shivered. He _did_ have those lovely long fingers and that _touch_ \--her eyes fluttered closed as he gently ran the back of his hand against the top of her thigh. It was tender and promising, but they had had tender and promising before.

The fingertips stuttered to a hesitant stop at the crease of her thigh, and she opened her eyes to find Jack watching her, slightly… apprehensive, perhaps, but curious. 

Phryne laced her fingers over his, raising his hand to kiss his calloused digits, then lay down and encouraged him to join her.

They kissed for several long, slow moments; not with quite as much certainty as he had kissed her in the past, but with an attempt to find equilibrium. 

“What do you want, Phryne?” he whispered, voice husky. It was a sound she could definitely get accustomed to.

She paused, giving his question due consideration; any number of cheeky or overly sentimental answers were discarded before she settled on, “Your hands.”

It was different, somehow--intimate and promising, yes, but with more distance if they needed it. He nodded. 

“How?”

“Have you done this before?”

“It’s been a long time,” he said, “and I’m _trying_ to keep the spectre of my former wife out of the bed. Tell me what you want.”

Phryne ran through her past lovers--who had had the best technique? There was that clerk with the typing skills, who could bury his fingers inside of her and just pull in the right way, or that young student who had spent so long down there that his fingertips were shriveled. Or there was that pianist, who could make her vibrate with the gentlest touch.

“Jack… how did you learn to play the piano?”

The fingers of his free hand were back on her hip, moving in slow circles without him seeming to notice. 

“Mrs. Bird down the road taught me. Why?”

Phryne lifted the hand she was yet to release, held between both of hers, so they could both see it. She turned it over, palm up, and traced lines from wrist to fingertip.

“I've seen you play … I've seen the way your hands run over the keys. Think of me as just another piece to practice.”

“Another hand and finger exercise?” he asked, one eyebrow raised and a wry smile on his face. The hand on her hip moved downward, stopping just short of where she wanted him as if waiting for her reply.

“Exactly,” Phryne murmured, caressing his hand once more before letting it go. “Another sonata or etude to learn…”

He leant into her, his breath tickling her ear.

“I'd think you're more of a nocturne, Miss Fisher.” 

“Too quiet for me,” she argued. “I'm definitely--oh!” 

She gasped as the first long finger dipped between her folds, and read the question in his eyes. 

“Good,” she breathed. “Just… gentle, soft …. _Fingertips._ ” 

“Softly? Pianissimo?” he asked, his finger stroking against her.

“Pianissimo,” she confirmed, nodding. 

She moaned and twisted into him as he methodically explored, the sensation both exquisite and not enough. There was a small squeak when he brushed in a particularly good way; he huffed a small laugh, his eyes tenderly fond, and Phryne took the chance to kiss him again. He was looking more confident, at least, though not perhaps up to improvisation just yet. She sighed as his hand fell away, but he was simply moving to draw his arm around to hold her closer, warm and steady. He pressed a kiss to her hair and resumed his explorations; she tried to stay still, let him discover her every secret at his own pace, but it was too much. This… _electricity_ was what they had expected, dangerous and crackling and ready to strike. His finger grazed the tip of her clit and she jolted, whimpering quietly.

“Alright?” he asked. 

“Not enough,” she replied, her breathing heavy. His finger swept down, brushing against her opening, and she whimpered again. “Not enough, Jack. Inside me. Slowly.”

Watching her face, he gently slipped one long index finger inside of her. “Adagio?”

“Yes, yes. Like that,” she encouraged. “Now, two fingers.”

Obediently, he slipped a second finger inside; together, they felt better than even her vivid imagination and long experience had prepared her for, if only because she’d waited so long, but the rest of his hand was now awkwardly placed, with half of it digging uncomfortably into her inner thigh. She started to tell him to adjust … and then had a better idea.

“Try this,” she said, reaching down to move his hand into a position more comfortable for both of them. 

“Hands and wrists need to be in the proper position?” Jack asked, obviously familiar with the correction.

She grinned. “Exactly. Now, curve your fingers in.”

She gasped as they pressed inside her inner walls.

“Move in and out. Smoothly.” 

“Legato,” Jack murmured as he started slowly moving.

“Yes, but a bit faster,” she moaned, and he obliged, his fingers moving in and out as the flat of his palm hit her pelvic bone in just the right spot. 

She buried her face into his shoulder--she realised for the first time he was still in his shirtsleeves--and gasped.“Faster, allegro,” she urged, tension building, “allegro molto.” 

His hand movements sped up still more. In what seemed no time at all she was moaning his name against his neck, encouraging and pleading in equal measure; in another two strokes she came apart, his name a groan rumbling through her. 

He paused, and the hand movement stopped. “Was that… did you enjoy that?”

She groaned in affirmation, pulse thudding, and stroked his arm. 

“Generally what that sound means,” she teased, face still buried against him. “You can remove them now.”

He swept his fingers out of her. 

“Gently!” she yelped.

“Sorry,” he murmured, pulling her tightly against him; it was a tenderness that she didn’t usually enjoy from a lover, but she found herself melting against him all the same.

“S’fine,” she muttered, overcome with the urge to simply not move from her current position for a very long time. If she didn’t have the promise of undressing him, she might not have.

“That really was…good? For you?” he asked, voice earnest.

Phryne looked up. “I would scold you for doubting me, but given the other day… Yes, Jack, it was good.”

His face filled with relief, and she moved up for a kiss; she felt herself pulling him deeper in, pressing her body against his, running her hands down his side, longing for every point of contact between them. He returned it with equal fervour, their hesitance and teasing and impeccably bad timing forgotten for the moment. 

She pulled back for breath, intending to finally and completely unravel Jack Robinson; his rumpled, just-kissed state was certainly a start. Her hands moved to the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers fumbling as she unfastened them and pushed the garment off his shoulders. The tie was next, flung behind her with no regard to where it landed, then his shirt. She moved on to his trousers, but he stilled her hands with one of his.

“Phryne,” he said softly. “Phryne, can you show me how you liked to be touched … here, first?” He lightly pressed her clit, and she had the sudden, ridiculous and endearing image of him setting himself to the task of learning how to please a woman solely through texts. “I have a feeling that by the time you’re through with me I’m not going to be thinking about much of anything.” 

“It’s--” she gasped as his finger moved, just a fraction; she thought to tease him and prod him to see what he already knew, but the words did not come easily to her. She forced herself to slow down, to refrain from thrusting against him; she suspected she could come apart so easily for him, from his voice and his generosity and a finger against her clit, even in a less than ideal position, but that wasn’t what either of them needed. Not this time. “If you…”

She trailed off again, biting her bottom lip. She was normally much more articulate than this in the boudoir. She abandoned any pretence of trying to recall music terminology as he grazed over her clit again.

“Like this?” 

“No, not quite …” 

“Or like this?” 

He pressed the exposed tip directly and she yelped. 

“No!”

He pulled his hand back instantly, flushed. “I’m so sorry…”

“No, no, it’s fine. Just sensitive. Here, this will work better if I show you.” 

She took his hand again, thumb grazing its back.

“Two fingers,” she instructed. “Press here.” She fought to find the spot that she preferred. “Not as sensitive.”

He did as he was told. 

“A little more firmly,” she coaxed (“con forza,” he muttered), gasping as his fingers hit the sweet spot. “Now, move them. Slowly.”

He did as he was told, testing speed and pressure and angle and adjusting to her responses, and she started losing herself in the sensation. Her fingers gripped his arm, digging into the muscles; there was something else she’d meant to tell him, but he was kissing her neck as his fingers stroked, the curve of his smile palpable against her skin, and she lost her train of thought. He held her close, and Phryne relinquished control, allowing herself to fall into the sensations he drew from her body, with nothing but the occasional moan of ‘harder’ or ‘softer’ to guide him; he brought her to the edge rather quickly, then hesitated--just for a second, but she felt it. 

“A little firmer,” she said. “Just a bit. Up just--ohgod, there. Yes.”

He was watching her face, studying and analysing every change in her expression; she kept her eyes on his, tacit permission to continue his studies, until he found just the right spot and pressure. Her eyes widened and her head fell back with a gasp and a groan, her body shaking. Jack slowed his movements down, coming to a rest, and pulled her tightly against him. 

“And that's the coda?” 

Lost in her own head and thoughts of exactly how capable his hands had proven to be, Phryne barely heard him. She grabbed Jack’s hand, entwining their fingers, then raised it to her lips. 

“If you’re still insisting on delaying your satisfaction--”

“Oh, I’m definitely satisfied,” he said, eyebrow raised in challenge. 

She laughed. “Then I think it’s time we see exactly what these beautiful hands are capable of.”

He looked at her, playful and open. 

“And just what is that, Miss Fisher?”

She grinned, sitting up and motioning across the room. 

“On that table right there, you’ll find a little bottle of oil...”


End file.
